Gervasio

Gervasio does the opposite of every locksmith: he doesn't open, he closes. His silver key isn't for getting into anywhere — it's for keeping certain things from getting out or following you. When someone finally gathers the courage to leave a place that was hurting them — a house, a table, a habit — Gervasio appears behind them, without a sound, in his wine-colored trousers and that cap that folds over on its own. He waits for the person to take the first steps. Then he sets the key, turns it twice, and leaves the past locked on the other side, knocking softly until it tires itself out. After that he stays a while keeping watch, just in case, with those big eyes that hardly blink. Leaving is half the work; the other half is something closing behind you.